


Silence and Shadows

by confetticlockwork



Series: In Any Universe [2]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/F, It's like Luminescence but less good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8649850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confetticlockwork/pseuds/confetticlockwork
Summary: "She’s been to prisons and asylums and battlefields, little patches of the world that have seen more horror than their molecules can cope with, but something always brings her back here, to Los Angeles, to Constance, to the Murder House."Billie Dean reaches deep into the past and finds a spirit to save.This is the missing link between two characters we never saw interact.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I realise I have been notably absent from this fandom, but that’s because this has been stewing for ages and I write it when I am inspired or have a spare hour (which is surprisingly rare). It follows the same sort of structure as Luminescence in that it is long and split into two parts for ease of reading. 
> 
> This is my take on Hotgomery, and honestly the premise wasn’t that difficult to come up with, considering that they don’t actually share a scene in Murder House. 
> 
> I have a Bananun half done as well, that will likely be shorter if it ever gets published. I’ve almost finished a weird, short Shelby x Audrey that should be up at some point. I also want to write an over-arching one that links ‘em all up a bit. Keep an eye out!
> 
> Sorry for any errors x

\----|--|----

 

The despair is so thick she’s almost choking on it. She’s been to places where a thousand tortured souls had finally sighed out of their corporal form. Her profession and unique ability take her all across the country. She’s been to prisons and asylums and battlefields, little patches of the world that have seen more horror than their molecules can cope with, but something always brings her back here, to Los Angeles, to Constance, to the Murder House.

 

The first time she walked through the door, shortly after the gay couple had restored it to its former glory, she had felt winded, dizzy, _crushed_ by the weight of darkness clinging to its very walls. There is something hideously, terrifyingly, unstoppably evil about the very building, and she knew it from that first instant.

 

She rested a hand on the wooden panelling, and felt it burn her. Their presence was palpable. Usually, spirits hide. Usually, she has to reach into a second sphere of consciousness, a different dimension to even detect them, let alone interact with them. In _that_ house, however, _they_ sought out _her_. They were brimming and bubbling on the surface, not in this world, but not in the next, and it was overwhelming, like walking into a room so crowded it’s almost impossible to breathe.

 

She had not hung around to speak to them the first time. She had caught a glimpse of one out of the corner of her eye, a boy by the looks of it, half-obscured by a doorway, and staring straight at her in a way that was almost imploring.

 

She ran from the house, gasping and trembling. It had taken an entire packet of cigarettes and several tumblers of alcohol, along with a long, detailed talk with Constance, to fully ease the dread that had settled in her bones.

 

\----|--|----

 

“You can see me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

The boy – _only a boy_ – slowly emerges from behind the bannister. He is wan and lanky, the awkwardness of youth still presence in the slump of his shoulders and messy, adolescent blonde curls. His eyes are hollow, his complexion slightly sickly in how pale it is, his clothes not exactly fashionable, and she can’t see the wound that killed him. He’s a depressing sight, but perhaps good-looking in a conventional, boyish way.

 

“Hello Tate.”

 

“…You know me?”

 

She nods and smiles. Her job requires a certain level of people skills. She knows within a moment of meeting him how she will have to behave if she is to forge a successful exchange.

 

“I know your mother. She paid me to come to talk to you, to convince you to see her, but I won’t make you if that isn’t what you want.”

 

Tate swallows, a grim expression pulling at his mouth, one that looks very comfortable on his face; his standard expression, she supposes. He backs into the shadows slightly, but doesn’t leave.

 

“She’s very worried, Tate. She wants to know how you’re coping. She misses you. She wants to talk.”

 

He shakes blonde curls.

 

“No. No, I don’t want that. It’s her fault I’m stuck here all alone.”

 

He has a very childish way of talking, she notices, like his brain has never caught up with the aging of his body. She drums manicured nails against the polished wood of the table.

 

“Do you remember why you’re stuck here, Tate?” _Keep using his name, he might remember who he is…_

“Yes.” He says, and he sounds insulted. “I’m dead. I died in this house, and when that happens, you’re stuck here forever.”

 

She nods, and shifts on her stilettos.

 

“Yes. And do you remember _how_ you died?”

 

He goes to nod, and then promptly realises that he doesn’t, and looks so ashamed she could almost feel sorry for him. In a way, she does. Even a soul as dark as his doesn’t deserve an eternity of this purgatory.

 

He thinks long and hard, she remains standing, facing him, pushing impeccably styled blonde curls away from her face.

 

His eyes fill with tears. “N-no…” He mumbles “But it was something bad, wasn’t it?”

 

She’s not sure what to do if he starts crying, but she supposes he won’t want any more lies.

 

“Yes, Tate. It was something bad. But it wasn’t your mother’s fault. And it’s over now. It isn’t my position to tell you, but she might. Let her come to you. Talk to her. Make peace with her. She misses you terribly and I know you’re lonely here, just give it a chance.”

 

Tears begin to slip down pallid cheeks and he looks even younger now. He shakes his head. “No…no I don’t want to see her. I don’t want her here, she’ll ruin it. She always wanted this house. I don’t want her here…”

 

She feels his presence wavering in the air around her. He doesn’t want her here either, and he wants to leave himself. She sighs.

 

“Listen, Tate. A lot of messed up things have happened in this house. A lot of poor people are stuck here, and a few horrid people, but you must know that. I’m gonna be back to get a better sense of the place. Do you have a problem with that?” There’s nothing worse than being unwelcome somewhere like this.”

 

Tate looks at her through flooded, red-rimmed eyes. “Are you gonna bring her with you?”

 

She thinks for a moment, then smiles tightly. “No, I won’t. Not until you want me to. I’m just going to have a look around, perhaps talk to some of the other ghosts, and you, if you want to. I’m just curious.”

 

He looks at her and nods, tears easing. “Are you magic?”

 

She laughs to herself. “No. Not really. I’m a medium; a real one. That’s why your mother called me. I can talk to ghosts in a way most living people can’t. That’s why I’m fascinated by this place. That’s why I’ll be back.”

 

He nods. “That’s ok. I don’t mind. Do the gay guys?”

 

“They don’t know. Constance has a spare key and I make sure they’re out.”

 

Tate looks like he can’t decide how he feels about that. He looks like he can’t decide on a lot of things, poor soul.

 

She picks her handbag up and checks her watch. “It’s been nice to meet you, Tate. I’ll be back soon.”

 

“Who are you?” He calls after her when she reaches the back door.

 

She turns back to him for a second before she leaves. “Billie Dean Howard.”

 

\----|--|----

 She’s one of the last she meets.

 

It makes sense, that since she’s been there the longest, she’s hidden the best.

 

Billie Dean has been slipping into the house whenever she gets the all-clear from Constance that the current owners are out. She’s explored most of it, but she finds herself gravitating towards a corner of the chilling basement that she has avoided since she first made her way down the steps into the pressing darkness. The basement is where the spirit presence is at its peak, stealing the air from her lungs and making goosebumps cover her skin under make up and her skirt suit.

 

Her presence is hazy, like a mirage on a road on a hot day, but she can hear her sobbing. She reaches out, searching for something concrete to lock onto, but hers is an ancient spirit, and time has warped her.

 

“Hello?”

 

The voice draws in a surprised, shaking breath in between sobs, and Billie can see her now.

 

“H-how…?”

 

She descends into more sobs, and Billie has half a mind to leave her to it. She can’t be dealing with dramatists. It’s death; not _that_ big a deal when you hang around, and a concept she’s surely used to, as she’s clearly been here a while.

 

Her clothing would date her to the twenties, and they’re expensive looking. That makes it fairly obvious who she is. She has delicate golden curls and a pale face, and every aspect of her is elegant, besides her crying. She has been well brought up, that much is evident, and her blue eyes hold such sadness that she feels a little guilty for walking in on her like this.

 

She sees her hovering awkwardly, and Billie wishes she’d remained unnoticed, because the look is so accusatory that she can’t think of anything to say.

 

“W-who are you…what are you doing here…?”

 

Billie swallows and pulls herself together. Ghosts are nothing to be afraid of. She’s the shadow of the living in the realm of the dead, and she’ll do what she can to establish contact, as she always has.

 

“You must be Nora Montgomery.”

 

The woman stills, and her expression is somewhere between confused and distraught, potentially both. Billie Dean moves uncertainly into the room.

 

“That…is correct…who are you and what are you doing in my house…?” Spoken with a trembling voice, the demands are anything but intimidating.

 

Billie approaches her, too giddy on this fascinating discovery to be cautious any longer. Mrs. Montgomery looks taken aback, and opens and closes her mouth several times, stunned.

 

The ghost is perched on a stool that must have been down there since before the two men moved in, and she rocks backwards and forwards slightly manically. Billie Dean stands over her and her eyes soften at the pitiful sight.

 

“Mrs. Montgomery, I’m Billie Dean Howard. I’m a medium with a messed up obsession with this house and I just wanted to make contact with its deceased inhabitants. I know the history; this house was built for you, and I mean no offence by coming here uninvited.”

 

All the while, Nora observes her with surprise. She holds a delicate lace handkerchief to her tear-stained face, and petal lips part as she stares at Billie like she’s mad.

 

“A…a medium? As in one of those con artists who pray on others’ grief for a living?”

 

Billie doesn’t even flinch at this abrupt change of character. Ghosts often find themselves torn between two personalities, especially those who have been hanging around for as long as Nora Montgomery. In fact, she doesn’t think she’s ever encountered a spirit as old as this woman face-to-face. The experience is somewhat thrilling.

 

“No, I’m for real, I assure you. I doubt you allow many visitors to see you, but I can, clear as day.”

 

Nora looks perturbed by this idea, and shrinks back into her clothes, curling in on herself as she weeps.

 

“…my baby…I thought – have you seen him?”

 

The ghost looks up from where she sits, straight at Billie Dean, and she feels something cold and suffocating clamp round her heart. The pure, unhindered grief in the woman’s eyes is enough to knock her off-balance, but the despair rolling off her is stronger than she has ever experienced. She feels tears collect in her own eyes.

 

Nora’s mouth continues to move silently, mumbling to herself about her baby, and the medium recalls what happened to her. Usually, she’s all for enlightenment, and believes that ghosts deserve a clear answer when it comes to what happened to them, but she just can’t bring herself to tell this poor lost soul what terrible thing has occurred in her life, so much so that she chose to end it herself.

 

She bends down to kneel in front of Nora so she is at her eye level. She takes a shuddering breath in as the chill from the spirit begins to seep into her very being.

 

“Nora, I don’t know where your baby is, no. But I know that he’s safe and happy, and you needn’t worry. You’re doing great, and you’re going to be fine…everything’s going to be fine…”

 

Nora has stopped crying and looks at her with narrowed eyes, arched eyebrows drawn together. Perhaps she is affronted by the familiar use of her first name. Perhaps she is sceptical. She is harder to read than other spirits she has come across in the past.

 

“What you’ve been through…it’s terrible. It must have been very difficult, but that’s done now.”

 

Tears slip silently down pale cheeks as Nora looks at her with something akin to wonder. Billie Dean thinks that this might be the first contact she’s had with another living soul in years, possibly decades. She’s bound to be slightly overwhelmed.

 

“Terrible?...I thought…”

 

Her accent is rich and her voice is clipped and eloquent. She is every inch the well-bred lady, and it’s sad to see her in such a state.

 

“It’s ok, don’t worry. I’ll leave your house. You’ll find your baby. Don’t worry, your husband is looking out for you. I’ll look out for you too.”

 

The socialite scans her with sea-blue eyes, sizing her up, validating what she’s saying. She sniffs quietly and the hint of a smile tugs sadly at her mouth.

 

“Just the emptiness…” She says, and the sadness vanishes momentarily from her eyes, replaced with a numbness that is possibly worse than her despair, and Billie Dean flinches. “Always the emptiness, Ms. Howard.” Her small smile is indeed empty.

 

\----|--|----

 

The next time she returns, it’s with Constance.

 

The older woman sits nervously at the table, the current owners at work, and fiddles with the hem of her skirt as Billie Dean stalks through the halls, searching.

 

“Tate? It’s ok, no need to be worried.”

 

He sits in his old room, currently a spare bedroom, cross-legged on the carpet. He looks exactly the same, only his clothes have changed. She thinks this must mean he’s at least slightly aware of his situation, if he can change his appearance. That would also explain the lack of bullet holes…

 

“You brought her with you.”

 

She stands in the doorway and falters. She’s beyond lying, he clearly knows.

 

“Yes, I did. She’s very worried. Why don’t you come down and say hello?”

 

Tate traces the fibres of the carpet with a finger and mumbles downwards. “She never cared about me when I was alive, why has that changed?”

 

“Death makes people realise what they were missing.”

 

“It sure does.”

 

She knows that death also makes people more cryptic, and sighs tiredly, before embarking on a heavy conversation that results in her talking him round, and only just coaxing him downstairs to talk to his mother. God, she’s good at her job.

 

She leaves them to it. Despite her invasive ability, she tries to stay out of family matters as much as possible, especially Constance’s.

 

When she steps into the lounge, she’s there.

 

She’s examining the bookshelves, her delicate, ringed fingers clutching her handkerchief once more, and muttering in a voice that sounds almost scared.

 

“No…no…all wrong…”

 

Her clothes have changed, and looking at her from behind, she sees for the first time the still-red exit wound the bullet left as she put it through her brain. She knows the story well, and seeing this confirmation makes her shiver.

 

“Mrs. Montgomery? Are you ok?”

 

The ghost looks round on her name, and looks straight past Billie Dean several times before she apparently notices her. She starts, and frowns. Her eyes are red and her pale cheeks are wet and blotchy. She’s been crying again. She wonders if there is ever a time when she isn’t crying.

 

“…Who are you? Are you the one who’s done…who’s done _this_ …to my house?”

 

She doesn’t remember her. She can’t say she’s surprised. She’s been here almost a century; what’s left of her consciousness is bound to be a little patchy.

 

“No, this isn’t my house –“

 

“No it most certainly isn’t. It’s mine. Charles built it for me, but I’m rather confused because I don’t remember it being this way. I think someone’s…I think someone has destroyed my house…really very confused…”

 

 _You most certainly are_ , thinks Billie. The ghost is talking quickly, ever clipped and polite, and scanning the room as though the walls are about to close in. She perches reluctantly on the edge of the sofa, and crumples her handkerchief in her fist, looking up at Billie for answers. _She’s rather beautiful_ , the medium thinks, in a traditional, elegant, almost artistic sort of way; all cheekbones and red lips and natural golden ringlets.

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” She’s not entirely sure why she makes the offer, but she feels that she can’t just leave the poor woman to tie herself in knots.

 

Nora swallows and shakes her head with determination, as if she’s too proud to accept help from her, but then she freezes and her eyes glitter with a memory, and she breathes out; “…my baby…have you seen my baby?”

 

Billie Dean fights the urge to roll her eyes. This conversation is clearly going in circles.

 

“No, Nora, I haven’t seen your baby.”

 

She looks a little affronted, but then clearly remembers something else.

 

“He said he would get me one. He said…he said he’d give me a baby…those two men, I don’t know what they’re doing here, but there’s going to be a baby…he promised me…”

 

“…’he’?”

 

She nods vigorously. “Yes. The boy. The little boy. Well, I suppose he’s bigger now. He said he’d get one for me.”

 

Billie Dean moves further into the room. She might have hit on something interesting here.

 

“The boy? Tate? Or is there another kid running around here I don’t know about?”

 

The mention of children makes the dead woman’s eyes darken and hollow, but she nods stiffly.

 

“Yes. Him. Where is he? He’s going to help me.”

 

The woman is clearly lost. She would say beyond help, but that sounds an awful lot like a challenge, and she does her job better than anyone. If there’s any saving Nora Montgomery’s mind, she will try.

 

“Why would Tate be helping you, Nora?”

 

Nora looks up and frowns at her, as if just noticing whom she’s talking to for the first time. She licks her lips then straightens her spine, regal posture regained.

 

“I must ask you to stop using my Christian name like that. It’s most impertinent of you, especially since I don’t know you.”

 

Billie smirks and rolls her eyes. “Of course, Mrs. Montgomery. My apologies.”

 

“And you still haven’t told me who you are and what you’re doing here!” Nora is on her feet now, and looking decidedly irritated. She really does jump between personalities, Billie Dean thinks.

 

“I’m just passing through. I’m sorry for entering into your home uninvited. I’ll be leaving now.”

 

Nora looks content, and nods disdainfully. As Billie Dean reaches the door, she hears an intake of breath, and glances back at the spirit. She looks as if she wants to say something, as if she’s fighting against the desperate urge to cry for help, alarm filling her eyes. She doesn’t, however, and she turns and vanishes behind a wall.

 

Billie Dean sighs. Tate plans on stealing the current residents’ baby, or at least he might do. Nora is an unreliable source at best, but Billie wouldn’t put it past the little serial killer. She’d best be on her guard. Her attempts at remaining passive to the situation of those whose lives she experiences are falling short, but taking a child away from its parents is a pretty evil deed to begin with, let alone giving it to _her_. A child raised by a ghost is bad news, a child raised by an almost 100-year-old ghost with severe memory loss and a tendency towards egotism and stubbornness who is desperately trying to replace the child cruelly taken from her would be a complete disaster.

 

No, Billie Dean thinks, she will be back. And _soon_.

 

\----|--|----

 

“He’s crushed in that place. Those…people…are forcing him into hiding, it isn’t good for him. When we spoke he was…different… _tainted_ …”

 

 _He killed 15 of his school peers_. “Spirits tend to remain disorientated and semi-present if they don’t fully process that they’re dead.”

 

“Half that goddamn house is insane. Those nurse girls never say anything, thankfully my husband’s in hiding, those little identical shits just cause trouble and most of the time it seems like the old whore is running the place. Why is it that _her_ of all people seems to have thrived? The others are mostly innocent.”

 

“It’s getting a little crowded admittedly. I’m beginning to wonder what’s going to happen to the gay couple, because something sure is going to.”

 

Constance shrugs and lights another cigarette, handing Billie her coffee.

 

“I couldn’t give a damn. As long as it’s soon and not messy. I could do with a nice family in, one that doesn’t argue all the time.”

 

“I think that’s the last place a family should be.”

 

“Well, you would know. How’s the lady of the house? I’ve never spoken to her. Never even seen her until I heard you talking the other day. Is she as mad as they say?”

 

“Mad…perhaps…I’d go with broken. She’s dreadfully confused. She’s half-mad with grief alone after everything that’s happened. I’m trying to help her.” She sips her coffee and shakes her head as she’s offered a cigarette.

 

“Why? She isn’t your concern.”

 

Billie Dean shrugs and leans back in her chair.

 

“She’s interesting. A spirit so old that she just wanders the house, sometimes appearing, sometimes not, wondering at what happened to it, desperately searching for her lost child. It’s sad, I think. She must have some interesting stories. I’d like to see if I could salvage what’s left of her.”

 

Constance sighs and observes her with a certain level of scrutiny.

 

“Go ahead. And tell her to keep an eye on my boys, but not too close an eye. Last thing I want is some heartbroken, narcissistic maniac adopting my children.”

 

\----|--|----

 

“Mrs. Montgomery?” She calls out. The sound of her heels echoes on the stone floor as she peers into the dusty corners of the basement. Curiosity got the better of her again, and this time Constance doesn’t know she’s in the house.

 

A chill sweeps over her, the room is almost vibrating with energy. She feels the air beside her shift, as if someone had walked past her, and she turns to stare through the empty darkness.

 

“…Nora?”

 

“Are you here to see my wife?”

 

The man wears a lab coat, a monocle hanging from a chain round his neck. He has an unremarkable face, with brown hair parted down the middle, and the sheen over his eyes gives him a dazed expression.

 

“Dr. Montogmery…yes, I…um, I’m here to see if I could speak with her?”

 

The man, the doctor she assumes, looks at her through narrowed eyes. She can’t see a bullet wound at his temple, a fact that clashes with his evident disorientation.

 

“Are you here for the procedure? Has my wife medicated you?”

 

Billie Dean chuckles awkwardly to herself. “No, I’m not here for that. I just wanted to talk. I just want a word. Is she around?”

 

As she speaks, his eyes become vacant, like he’s retreating into himself. He mumbles something she doesn’t catch and gestures over his shoulder, moving past her. She hears him mutter something about interfering with his work before he vanishes. She doesn’t attempt to tune in and follow his presence.

 

Nora is in the adjoining room in the basement, running her hand along the wall and staring in disgust at the thick layer of dust that comes away on her fingers. She tuts, and grumbles about the staff. Billie once more hovers in the doorway. She appears to have taken to doing that recently. Something about this ghost in particular makes her feel wary, not scared as such, just a little uneasy.

 

“Mrs. Montgomery?”

 

Nora turns around, and this time sees Billie straight away. She looks more…present than usual, more grounded.

 

“Oh, hello again, Ms…Howarth? Howard?”

 

“Howard.” Billie Dean affirms, and the surprise she feels at the ghost’s recollection is accompanied by a pleasant fluttering of what might be triumph.

 

“How can I help you?”

 

Ok, now she feels a little stupid.

 

“Um…I don’t need anything in particular actually. I just…came to say…hello…” _I want to bury into your soul and read your story. I want to worm it out of you and stare and probe until I understand everything about so interesting a spirit._

 

“You…wanted to…say hello to me?”

 

The woman looks so completely baffled, so unbelieving and doubtful that Billie Dean relaxes slightly and smiles.

 

“Yes. That’s all.”

 

Nora frowns in suspicion and turns to face her fully.

 

“No one ever comes to see me.”

 

“Well that makes me the first I guess.”

 

“And you’re… _you’re_ …”

 

_Sane? Safe? Kind?_

“…alive?”

 

Billie Dean’s smile turns soft and pitying.

 

“Yes, I’m alive.”

 

Nora’s eyes light up, eyes that aren’t currently swimming with tears; a definite improvement.

 

“Oh my, we must go upstairs and sit down somewhere decent and you must tell me everything.”

 

Then Nora’s tugging on her sleeve like a lost child and urging her up the stairs, out of the dank basement into the midday light of the hallway.

 

She sits Billie Dean down on the sofa, apparently unbothered that it isn’t her own, and sits next to her, close enough to show she is eager, but far away enough to be polite. The medium can’t help but find this whole situation rather exhilarating. In this moment, the socialite’s ghost is so _real_ , so _palpable_ , that she has difficulty remembering that she isn’t as alive and breathing as Billie is.

 

“Tell me everything. Tell me all that I’ve missed. Did Europe go to war? What happened in Wall Street? I keep finding these strange devices all round my house, what happened there?” She laughs to herself, and the sound is happy and carefree. “Oh my, I don’t even know what year it is!”

 

It becomes apparent to Billie Dean that she has broken Nora out of the strange trance that she has been in for who knows how long. The thought gives her a sense of satisfaction.

 

She takes a deep breath. “Firstly, yes, Europe went to war, and we joined England’s side. We won, no world wars since then. It lasted four years.”

 

Nora’s eyes widen, as if she can’t believe she missed such an event.

 

“Second, Wall Street…it crashed I believe, as people said it would. Depression hit the States bad, but we’re more or less recovered now.”

 

Nora nods, as if she knew it would play out the way it did.

 

“The year is 2010.” She says all in one breath.

 

The ghost’s mouth falls open in shock. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head slightly, disbelieving.

 

“That…that can’t be…are you sure? _2010_?!”

 

Billie Dean laughs softly. “Yes, I’m certain of the year.”

 

Nora glances round the room, looking at it with new eyes, now she knows just how long it has been.

 

“It’s…it’s been almost _one hundred years_?!”

 

Billie nods, biting her lip. Nora looks down, mind far away from the house, no doubt thinking of that huge world that has changed and moved on without her.

 

“I…It’s strange,” her eyes flood with tears and Billie Dean is terrified that she’ll start sobbing. “…I knew that the world wouldn’t end within a few decades, but…I never imagined it a hundred years on. That was…too distant, too far away, I had no idea what to picture because it was so obscure it didn’t exist….and here I am…”

 

She turns to look out of the window, the watery sunlight straining through the clouds falls across her face. It is strange, because Billie Dean knows she is more than a century old, and yet putting that fact to her face, a face hollowed slightly by sadness but still indisputably in the prime of youth, confuses her brain somewhat.

 

“Technology’s moved on a bit, but nothing major has changed. We had another world war, we had a load of presidents, more school shootings, more film stars, more ways to kill yourself by eating too much of a type of food. Drugs are still illegal, women’s rights have moved forward…a bit, crime’s at the same level, gays can get married in some states, we’re slowly choking the world with chemicals and cutting down too many trees, and humans are pretty much as they used to be, only with cell phones and hair gel.”

 

Nora follows her speech with ever-widening eyes. She looks like she has a million questions to ask and doesn’t really know where to start.

 

“How have women’s place changed?”

 

Billie Dean smirks. “We’re equal to men, supposedly. Same wages, same laws obeyed, everything.”

 

The ghost evidently doesn’t quite know how to feel about this fact.

 

“We’re killing the world?”

 

“Yes. We drive cars too often or something and we’re burning it up.”

 

“Does everyone have a car now?”

 

“Pretty much. They’ve changed a bit too.”

 

Nora reaches into the folds of her skirt and brings out that damn piece of laced cloth and crumples it in her hand in her trademark anxious gesture. She swallows hard and stands from the sofa, moving over to the window and looking out at the world.

 

“It doesn’t look that different, I must admit. Apart from those horrific machines in the kitchen; I don’t like them at all.”

 

Billie Dean laughs before she can stop herself and Nora frowns at her, trying to decide if she should be offended or if there’s a joke she has missed.

 

The medium shakes her head and pats the seat beside her, the space the ghost has just vacated.

 

“Take a seat, Mrs. Montgomery. I clearly have a lot of explaining to do.”

 

\----|--|----

 

Then the young men die.

 

Constance calls Billie Dean in a panic. It’s happened again, another murder/suicide, another two deaths in the Murder House, another two disquieted spirits to hang on the precipice, to haunt the halls, to potentially cause chaos.

 

“How many deaths can one place handle?”

 

“…I don’t know. I mean, wherever you stand, someone has likely died there, at some point. Hospitals have seen more death than anywhere, battlefields are full of souls, but they’ve mostly passed on. The house is comparatively small, the history particularly dark, and they’re all hanging around. At some point, whether it’s soon or in a century’s time, the place is going to have seen so much despair and horror that it’s going to split itself open, and then who knows what will happen.”

 

Constance is silent on the other end of the phone, thinking, dreading.

 

“We can’t let anyone else move in. I’d buy the damn place just to keep it empty, if I had the money.”

 

“I think the only safe thing to do is to knock it down. I don’t know what would happen to the spirits, but it would mean there wasn’t a physical embodiment of all that evil…”

 

“No. That’s out of the question. I’d lose my family.”

 

“Constance, you lost your family when they died. It’s unnatural for them to hang around. They’re tainted. They’re wrong. The most we can do is try to give them some rest.”

 

“We can’t knock it down. Physically, we can’t just drive round with a bulldozer, and I said I can’t buy it myself.”

 

Billie Dean sighs. She has a meeting with a producer about a potential media investment concerning her _talent_. She doesn’t have time to worry about ghosts and dead homosexuals.

 

\----|--|----

 

The house is empty.

 

The previous owners’ belongings have been removed. The furniture sold, the personal possessions handed over to families. The atmosphere is heavier, the darkness darker, and two more spirits stir in the slowly settling dust, trapped, angered, and dangerous.

 

Billie Dean carefully, dutifully and with minimal fuss picks the lock and calmly walks into the house as if she owns it. The door swings shut behind her with a bang that echoes through the place.

 

“Tate?” She hisses. For once in her career, she feels a little scared. She hovers in the hall, afraid to disturb the souls.

 

“Miss Howard. I knew you’d be along, you can’t seem to stay away from this place.”

 

His voice has an arrogance to it that has been absent before, and she approaches him cautiously.

 

“Tate…this isn’t a social visit…I need answers…”

 

Tate, leaning casually against the bannister, laughs harshly and shrugs.

 

“Why? You have no legal, emotional or moral claim on this place. What’s your problem?”

 

Billie Dean pauses and bites her tongue. “I don’t know. It’s like I can’t help it. I’m tied up in this house and I don’t know how or why.”

 

“Well you aren’t welcome.” Says Tate, and his voice has dropped to a dangerous, icy tone. “We have enough problems without more living poking around. You’re just gonna stir everything up.”

 

Billie straightens her spine and faces the ghost fully, not willing to show any fear. “I know this house. Perhaps not as well as you do, but I know its core, it’s history, and most of its inhabitants. It’s fascinating to me, but also a danger to society if it gets out of control, and so it’s my responsibility to keep tabs.”

 

Tate pushes himself swiftly off the bannister and moves towards her, his permanent adolescence giving him a height advantage that Billie regrets. “This place is _not_ your responsibility, Miss Howard, and us spirits don’t take too kindly to trespassers who stick their nose in where it doesn’t belong, so I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.”

 

Billie Dean laughs, but her trepidation causes it to flutter slightly. “I didn’t come here to be threatened, Tate. I came here to ask about the rather sudden and untimely deaths of the previous tenants.”

 

Before she has time to process anything, Tate has aggressively forced her against the opposite wall, and his forearm is pressing against her throat, crushing her windpipe. She gasps in what air she can as he bends closer to whisper darkly into her ear.

 

“Don’t go there, Miss Howard. There are enough secrets here without exposing more. I don’t know who you think you are, but for some reason, you think your _gift_ gives you the right to dig where you shouldn’t. Maybe you’re just desperate to break into the mind of a ghost, maybe you get off on it, you’ve always had a sick obsession with this place. Well, your wish is my command.” And the pressure on her neck increases and her lungs beg for oxygen she can’t take in and her vision blurs and her brain is screaming at her and she thinks that he’s right, and now she’ll get what she deserves after meddling in the existence of so many spirits. Still, murdered by a dead teenage serial killer is not how she wanted to go.

 

“Tate! For heaven’s sake, what are you doing? We’ve spoken about this!”

 

The pressure alleviates slightly but doesn’t go away. Billie Dean cannot see who has spoken, but she recognises the voice.

 

“This is where it ends, Nora. I’m fed up of her poking around, we all are. She knows too much, she might spill. It has to end.” His voice is tight and a little manic, and she realises first hand how terribly unstable this boy is.

 

“So your answer is to throttle her? Are you _insane_?!” Billie Dean can’t help but think that the answer to that question has been blatantly obvious for a while. “She may not have been invited, but she’s a guest in this house, and I will not have such unpleasantness under this roof.” Her voice has no haste to it, but rather is sharp and scolding.

 

“It…it has to end…she’s a threat to us…” Tate mumbles through gritted teeth.

 

“So you’re happy for her to stay here for eternity?! You think letting her join us will stop her? It’ll make it easier for her!”

 

Tate clearly thinks she’s talking some sense, as his grip has loosened to the point where Billie can breathe again, but it’s still there; a threat.

 

“Enough of the bullshit, Nora, she _has_ to go”

 

“Tate, listen.” The curt way Nora talks to the boy makes Billie Dean anxious; no one has ever talked to Tate like that, like Constance would have if she had ever bothered to be a good mother. The ghost approaches and places a delicate hand on Tate’s arm, the one that isn’t currently threatening to suffocate the medium.

 

“You’re being ridiculous. This house has seen enough needless tragedy, frequently caused by you, I might add.” He looks down at this, Billie would almost say he’s ashamed. “Go and calm down and seriously think about the implication this would have had if I hadn’t been here.” She hisses angrily.

 

Billie Dean is completely shocked to see his features fall in shame, and the arm leave her throat. Tate steps away and slouches off, curling in on himself with poorly disguised self-loathing.

 

When he’s a safe distance away, Billie Dean drags in lungfuls of air gratefully, leaning heavily on the wall behind her. Nora is still watching the staircase where Tate disappeared a moment ago.

 

Billie’s relieved sigh seems to drag her out of her thoughts.

 

“Are you alright?” She asks shortly.

 

Billie Dean nods. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Mrs Montgomery. I forgot how volatile he can be.”

 

“He has a point, you know.” She says, drifting off into the office. Billie Dean follows.

 

“It is tremendously impolite to just waltz uninvited into someone’s home.” Nora’s posture is as pristinely rigid as it always is, but she looks slightly lost with the absence of furniture.

 

“Yes, you’re right. My apologies. I only came to find out what happened to the owners.”

 

She waits; an invitation, but Nora doesn’t bite.

 

“Do you know what happened, Mrs Montgomery?”

 

Nora turns to look at her. “Yes, I believe I do.”

 

“…Well? Could you tell me?” Billie ventures.

 

Nora appears to not have heard her. She walks towards the medium. Her dress has changed again; this one is midnight blue and intricately patterned around the bodice. Billie only notices then that she has that scrape of lace in her hand as usual, but she isn’t twisting or crushing it, rather just holding it, like a child’s safety blanket.

 

The way the ghost peers at Billie Dean, staring straight into her eyes, makes her feel that perhaps she is a ghost too, only as transparent as they are in the movies.

 

“You’re very beautiful, Miss Howard.” She says out of nowhere. “I’ve seen all sorts these days, wandering round the house, and so many have questionable style, but your looks would have been well received in my day.”

 

A pressure not dissimilar to the one that was against her windpipe not ten minutes ago makes itself known in Billie’s chest, and she can’t name it. It feels a lot like a compliment she didn’t know she’s been waiting for.

 

“T-thank you…Mrs Montgomery.” _That means a lot, coming from you._

“I mean it not simply for flattery. No one observes common niceties anymore.”

 

Billie laughs nervously. “You’re right there.”

 

“I think we could be friends, Miss Howard.” Nora says, after a moment of evident consideration.

 

Billie nods. “I’d like that.”

 

“You needn’t worry about Tate, I won’t permit such foolishness in the future. He won’t hurt you, if he knows what’s good for him.”

 

“You seem to have a certain influence over him…”

 

Nora nods proudly. “I practically raised the boy. His useless mother let him run wild. He listens to me.”

 

“I’m grateful for that.”

 

Nora smiles and nods, and she looks more human by the minute, more whole.

 

“Did he kill the owners, Mrs Montgomery?”

 

Nora looks up calmly, and her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t look hostile.

 

“Yes. He had too. They decided not to have a child, so he killed them. It might have been a bit of an extreme solution, I must admit, and they are worse housemates dead than they were alive, but what’s done is done.”

 

“He killed them because they had one two many arguments?” Billie Dean says, disbelieving.

 

“He owes me. Like I said, I protected him when he needed me, and he wants to help me. He wants to give me what I want. He wants to make me happy.”

 

“By stealing a child from its parents?” She can’t keep the disgust from creeping into her voice.

 

“Do not be alarmed, I’ve long lost my conscience, Miss Howard.”

 

Billie Dean searches for something to say, but can’t find the words. She’s judging Nora, of course, but she must admit the socialite has a point; it’s difficult to blame someone who has the right to a conscienceless life.

 

“…Why…why would you force someone else to got through the horror you went through?”

 

Nora’s eyes shift into a distant expression; lost in the past, Billie would guess.

 

“Because it’s the only way to stop me from being swallowed up by this hell.”

 

“You can’t do it. It’s beyond immoral, it’s –“

 

“I would make a better mother than those two, at least the child wouldn’t be raised with its parents shouting at each other every waking moment.”

 

“Yes, but a ghost raising a child isn’t much better, I fear.”

 

The glimmer of hurt in Nora’s eyes grows with every second of silence that follows. Billie Dean realises that she may have stepped over the line with so sensitive a spirit, just as she’d been making progress.

 

“Well, it’s over now, anyway. Tate reacted violently, and I wouldn’t have had them killed, but he acted quite without my guidance and what’s done is done.”

 

“You’d better be careful, they’ll likely be out for vengeance now they have nothing to lose, and you live under the same roof.”

 

Nora laughs into the brittle quiet of the murder house.

 

“What more could they possibly do to me? I’ve reached Hell, Miss Howard, I have nowhere left to go, nothing left to fear.”


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is part 2. Shelby x Audrey should be up soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

They’re trying to sell the house. _Yeah, good luck with that_.

 

It’s been through so many hands, and _trapped_ so many of those hands, that surely someone at some point will realise there’s something definitely not right about this place and tear it down? The destruction of this cesspit of despair and unnatural spiritual presence was something Billie Dean used to dream of, but she thinks perhaps she’s spent too long in its halls, invested too much of herself in its foundations.

 

She plays cards with the nurses one afternoon, for lack of something better to do, then returns to speak with the newest additions to the house, both men equally pissed off but otherwise adapting. She meets the burnt children; shy and sweet and unfairly trapped in a state of ruined youth. She manages to speak with everyone in the house; introduce herself, and hear their story to an extent.

 

However, no ghost can make as fascinating and enrapturing a study as the earliest.

 

Nora is improving; her memory recovering now that she has someone living to talk to on a regular basis. Constance once tries; she asks her where Tate is when he’d hidden himself away. It didn’t go down well. Nora was confused, unsure as to who Constance was and wary that she may be an intruder in her house. Constance became quickly aggravated at what she took to be contempt and aggression on the deceased socialite’s behalf, and hence ensued a very loud argument full of contextual confusion and clearly empty threats. It had taken a conversation lasting over an hour between Nora and Billie Dean just to get the ghost to calm down and stop screeching about common impudence.

 

She likes her. To hell with it; she _likes_ her. There’s something rather wonderful about talking to her, like the hero of history most kids dream of meeting if they could choose one dead person to have tea with. She’s so… _of her time_ , and yet surprisingly liberal. She doesn’t seem to hold any strong opinions on the gay couple now residing alongside her in her house, not like Constance does; a modern and alive woman of the 21st Century. It seems that her initial reaction to what would have been considered an abomination in her time has fast faded after living under the same roof as them for as long as she had. Her only concern about their relationship was whether they were fit to raise a child, which of course she thought they weren’t, but that was probably just to convince herself she was justified in caring for the potential baby herself.

 

She has this air of effortless elegance that Billie’s drawn to. As someone who has subconsciously longed for a higher status her whole life, a woman who _encompasses_ class so easily is something she enjoys experiencing. She likes observing the way she sits, the way she moves, she likes hearing the way she talks. They’re so different it makes Billie Dean feel that every other living person on the planet is her clone.

 

They have fun too. You wouldn’t expect it, but they do. Billie Dean enjoys introducing Nora to new things and watching the initial horror in her face be driven out by fascination and amazement, sort of the stages of emotions she experiences herself when she meets an inhabitant of the house. Nora isn’t crazy. Nora isn’t even evil. Nora is self-centred and idle and tactless and occasionally spiteful, but Billie learns quickly that she has been raised this way. She talks little about her looks, only mumbling offhandedly about her choice of dress occasionally. The medium suspects that if the arrogance was _truly_ deep-set, she’d brag about her beauty, but she’s never mentioned it. When Billie brings her up to date on political correctness, it takes some persuasion to wean her off her old ways, but she usually comes round.

 

She’s difficult; an enigma. What can you expect from a woman of her status and lifestyle who’s not only suffered in life what she has, but has then been trapped in what could well be her idea of hell for almost a century? She’s confusing in attitude but not in character, and that’s nice, Billie thinks. Perhaps Nora herself isn’t nice, but spending time with her certainly is, and as someone thirsty for knowledge in such matters, she’s like a drug to Billie Dean. And, like an addict, she keeps coming back for more.

 

Nora will leave the moment sometimes. They’ll be in the middle of a conversation and her focus will shift and she’ll simply stare at Billie like _she’s_ the physical anomaly. The medium thinks that she is perhaps having trouble believing that she’d actually want to talk to her. Maybe she thinks this is all some bizarre dream. There is little physical contact because, in two such different worlds, two such different beings, Billie is worried what might happen, and even more worried that she has no idea.

 

She is however _slightly_ concerned that this dead 20s socialite is fast becoming a good friend.

 

\----|--|----

 

“Are more people moving in?”

 

“Not yet, no.”

 

“Are they _going_ to?”

 

“If they can sell it. That’s easier said than done.”

 

“Why? Who wouldn’t want to live here? I found myself suffocated, but the house is truly beautiful, don’t you think?”

 

“Beautiful or not, its track record is less than perfect.”

 

“The murders?”

 

“The murders, the suicides, the general death that clings to it. People don’t like living where others have died.”

 

“I’ve never understood that. If you tried you could be happy here.”

 

“I think people are just scared it’s haunted…”

 

Billie Dean trails off and looks up from her coffee at the ghost. She smirks teasingly. Nora laughs: a sound less chilling than Billie would have expected. In fact, it’s rather pleasant.

 

She realises she’s never heard her laugh before.

 

\----|--|----

 

Billie Dean Howard travels across country to Florida to visit her sister.

 

She watches California disappear behind the wings of the plane and a strange sensation washes over her, like stepping through a waterfall.

 

She spends two days with her niece and nephew who she hardly ever sees. She’s never been particularly keen on children but the younger is at the cute age of mostly sleeping and the elder is so easily impressed that Billie needs to only tell him a story or perform the most menial “magic” trick and he’s staring wide-eyed and giddy with appreciation.

 

Around day three her sister notices something’s off.

 

Billie fidgets. She can’t stay still for more than an hour. She takes long walks in the sun, she explores the town, she swims with the children, she starts three books but doesn’t get past chapter five of any of them.

 

Her sister brings up her restlessness and Billie shakes it off, dismissing it until day five, when she can no longer deny this odd behaviour.

 

She assures her she’s perfectly alright, but perhaps coming down with something; an illness picked up on the plane.

 

She stays a week that passes slower than she would have liked, then returns home.

 

When she re-enters the murder house, it’s like a breath of fresh air, a weight lifting.

 

\----|--|----

 

“Nora?”

 

The house is unusually quiet. The rain lashes against darkened windows. The gale beats itself against the roof and walls. The storm is raging, and it hasn’t even reached its peak yet.

 

“Mrs. Montgomery?”

 

Silence. No one stirs. The house is still uninhabited, but the furnishings that are being sold with it are still present, covered with dustsheets. Apparent LA Realty has an interested family on the line. Billie Dean prays for them.

 

“I know I’ve been gone for a few weeks. I’ve been busy. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” She calls into the empty house. It’s been three weeks and two days exactly. She’s been speaking to TV producers about the potential of being given her own show; an opportunity too good to pass up. Having visited the dead woman around twice a week, her absence would probably have been felt. She’s worried that it’s made Nora reluctant to show herself again.

 

Once she’s done a sweep of the house, passing and greeting several spirits, she sees that Nora isn’t there. She takes a deep breath and steels herself as she pushes open the now slightly rusty door to the basement.

 

She’s long stopped being afraid of Thaddeus Montgomery, but that doesn’t mean she wants to encounter him. The basement still chills her to the bone, even after all this time.

 

She’s there.

 

She’s standing in the place where Billie Dean first met her. The box she had been sitting on is absent, and she’s facing the wall. The handkerchief is gripped firmly in one pale hand.

 

“…Nora?”

 

The ghost flinches, her image flickering at her reluctance to see anyone. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

 

“Nora, I’m sorry I’ve been gone…I should have told you…”

 

The ghost is looking at a photo. It’s been buried down there for years, decades even.

 

It’s her and her family. The glass is fly-spotted and the frame dusty and tarnished, and it rests atop a pile of junk long forgotten. She must have found it and put it there. She’s crying. It’s been a while since Billie’s seen her tears.

 

“…Nora…”

 

The ghost flinches at the sound of her name.

 

Billie waits a respectable distance away, deciding to let the woman approach her if she wants to speak.

 

After a good few minutes, she does.

 

“I had a diamond choker before any of my friends.” She states simply. The way she says the word “friends” is slightly odd.

 

Billie remains silent.

 

“Charles bought it for me, but on my request…I was _always_ ahead of the times…”

 

She sniffs and smiles sadly at the picture.

 

“I was quite beautiful. My mother used to tell me often. I didn’t believe her at first, she said it that frequently. But soon I realized she said it not to give me confidence, but rather to emphasise the thing about me of which she was most proud. My _eligibility_.”

 

Billie Dean swallows. She notices the use of past tense in her first sentence.

 

“I did nothing but complain. I was never happy, as was the fashion. The decade was one of impatient extravagance. I was…never fully satisfied…despite everything…”

 

More tears fell.

 

“I loved my son. I was terrible at showing it. I barely saw him, leaving the maid to do all the work. But I loved him. He was something I’d done for myself. And then my greed led him to be…to be… _my baby boy…_ ”

 

A lump begins to form in Billie’s throat as Nora dissolves into more soft sobs.

 

She turns to look at the medium suddenly.

 

“What’s the point, Miss Howard?”

 

The question catches her off-guard, and she can only gape back in response.

 

“I thought I was unhappy _then_. I was alive. How on _earth_ could I have taken that for granted? I was always so modern and within the world. I could have done anything, I could have _had_ anything…now look at me…I truly have nothing…”

 

Billie Dean’s brows pull together in a pitying frown.

 

Nora begins to cry a little harder.

 

“The thing is, if I could kill myself I would…but I’m doomed…I’m stuck in this hell forever with a husband I never loved and a child who is no longer my baby and the spirits of a dozen people who despise me with no connection to the outside world…I can’t even _leave_ …and there’s no escape…this is my eternity…”

 

Billie Dean approaches slowly, carefully, her hands balled into fists at her side. Nora looks at her imploringly.

 

“And look at you, Miss Howard…you who have been so kind to someone so wretched…then again you are kind to us all…and you’re all I have and it’s still not enough…nothing ever will be…”

 

She shakes her head. “What am I to do with myself? What is the point of this miserable existence…?”

 

“Your situation is far from ideal, that much is obvious…” Begins Billie tentatively.

 

Nora raises the lace to her face to stem the tears.

 

“But there’s always something to exist for, I promise you. I know you have no choice, suicide clearly isn’t an option, but you can find something to _exist_ for…to enjoy in the abundant time you have…”

 

Nora begins to sob again. “There’s nothing…there’s this house and these miserable people and that’s _it_ …”

 

“Every moment you exist is something new.” Billie asserts, more forcefully this time, because she’s tired of this woman’s self-pity and she’s tired of her being so sad and she thinks this might be a way to stop the tears.

 

“Exist for experience. Exist for knowledge. Exist for standing at the window upstairs and watching the world evolving and growing and moving _around_ you. It will only leave you behind if you let it. Exist for conversation and discovery. Exist for emotions and colours and sights and sounds. Exist for the house and the people in it. Exist for your history and your legacy. Exist for the beauty that your mother told you about, that has made people stare and obsess, that is fascinating to people, even in your death…exist because the world keeps turning and you have the _gift_ of being able to turn with it, even though you’re dead, when others deceased can only watch it pass without them…”

 

On impulse, she reaches forward and takes Nora’s hands. It’s bizarre how real she is. She feels alive; slightly cool and smooth, but _real_.

 

Nora glances down at their joined hands in confusion and surprise, but does not pull away. She looks back up at the medium who now stands close enough that the contrast between the living and the dead isn’t as big as it first seemed. Nora trembles, but she’s stopped sobbing. She looks vaguely hopeful, like she wants to believe Billie Dean. The latter takes this as a good sign.

 

The medium shakes her head as tears gather in her own eyes.

 

“Nora I know what you’ve been through and I can’t even…I can’t even _imagine_ what it must be like…but I know you now… _I know you_ …I can feel you and see you…I can talk to you… _you’re real_ …you’re still here…isn’t that something?”

 

She raises a hand to the ghost’s face and Nora’s eyes widen in shock as a soft palm rests against her cheek, brushing away tears.

 

Billie’s heart is thundering with a mix of emotions, probably helped by the fact that she’s _touching a ghost_. The physical boundary has been breached and it’s a strangely heady sensation, but Billie can’t tell if that’s because she’s touching someone dead or because she’s touching Nora Montgomery…

 

“The emptiness…”

 

Billie shakes her head to interrupt.

 

“Think of it as quiet…peace and quiet…and possibility…”

 

Nora just stares back at her, her expression surprisingly calm, pensive, pleading, taking in Billie’s dark, kind eyes and gentle face.

 

“You can still experience new things…take it as a gift…” Billie practically whispers. Her thighs brush Nora’s skirt, her fingertips smoothing back an errant blonde curl from an ancient, sad, _beautiful_ face that _shouldn’t exist_ but does…

 

Nora breathes deeply, her fingers twitching in Billie’s hand in a way that could be taken as a cautious caress.

 

“I…I can’t…”

 

Billie allows a small, sad smile to flit across her face. “Well you’re going to have to try…”

 

Nora shakes her head once more, but Billie’s made a decision before she can say anything.

 

The socialite being taller than her, Billie has to stand on her toes slightly to reach her lips. The kiss is surprisingly well received in that it’s received at all. Nora’s breath trembles against her mouth but she doesn’t pull away. Her grip on Billie’s hand is crushing now, but Billie’s hand on her cheek is soft.

 

She meant it to be reassurance, to be some comfort and contact in a world tragically devoid of such, but something in the tentative pressure given back, or the vestiges of sweet perfume that hang around Nora, or her rose petal lips that feel as they look, or even just the excitement of it all means she lingers longer than she initially intended. Much longer. It becomes quickly apparent that neither is eager to let go of this just yet.

 

She can taste salt on her lips and history on her tongue and it’s suddenly very difficult to remember where she is and who she is. Nora’s hands drift hesitantly to her waist and she holds her there cautiously as the medium kisses her harder. Billie wonders how long it’s been since someone last kissed Nora. She wonders how long it’s been since someone touched her.

 

She pulls away slowly, cold from the loss of contact. She opens her eyes somewhat reluctantly to look up at the other woman. Nora is frowning in confusion, her expression difficult to decipher entirely. Billie Dean pulls away further.

 

“You find something…” Billie murmurs into the charged air between them.

 

Nora’s lips part and her eyes glitter and she looks like she wants to say something.

 

“…you _have_ to find something…”

 

Then something changes. For a moment Billie Dean is a little scared as the ghost’s eyes darken. Nora takes the other woman’s face in her soft, cold hands and presses their lips together again rather forcefully. Whatever reservations she had have evidently vanished, and Billie Dean gasps as Nora kisses experience into her and she kisses life into Nora. The ghost’s fingers slip into her hair a little and she pulls herself closer to her willowy frame.

 

It’s over as quickly as it began. Nora breaks away abruptly and the medium takes a step back, eyes wide and pupils dark; bewildered. Nora blinks slowly, then sighs, and it manages to sound both sad and relieved. Billie Dean blushes prettily, to the roots of blonde hair, and opens her mouth slightly to speak. The ghost smiles a little, then hesitates briefly before resting her hand gently on Billie’s shoulder, the touch oddly formal. She looks her in the eyes once more, sad, aged, blue eyes that looked slightly more hopeful that the universe’s sense of irony might someday wear off. The smile that touches her lips now is more genuine, and smaller. She walks off, through the door, then vanishes without another word.

 

With the spirit presence gone, Billie Dean lets herself show how overwhelmed she is, taking a few steps forward to lean heavily against the wall, trembling slightly, breathing quickly and completely shocked at her own bravery.

 

\----|--|----

 

The house is sold, the dust covers are off, and the new family prepare to move in.

 

This of course means that Billie Dean’s access to the house is severely limited.

 

Part of her is anxious. She finds the same pull in her stomach that she got in Florida, when part of her tries to drag the rest of her back to that place of spirits. Part of her is restless, eager to return, to reconnect with the house, to join the unique quality in her to the ghosts therein.

 

Part of her is worried.

 

She’s worried that the twenties was a long time ago and that almost a century is too much time to spend in one place and that suicide implies a mental disorder and that experience dictates character and that drug abuse and illegal abortions and the death of Thaddeus Montgomery were not the worst things to happen in that house, just the earliest. She’s worried that she has spent so much time trying to coax a very specific spirit out of her metaphorical shell and has more or less chased her back in. She’s worried that her absence might be taken as abandonment. She’s worried that it _is_ abandonment.

 

She’s worried that she kissed the ghost of a long-dead narcissistic socialite who is now over a hundred years old.

 

She’s worried that she enjoyed it.

 

And she’s relieved that she won’t have to face up to that immediately.

 

She lifts the drapes of Constance’s kitchen an inch to watch the removal van carry more furniture into the house.

 

She hopes this lot will be in and out quickly and with minimal fuss, optimistically hoping that they’ll survive.

 

Her hopes turn to prayer when she sees the blank-looking teenage girl step onto the porch.

 

\----|--|----

 

The Harmons are nice…apparently. A totally regular family. Billie Dean has not met them. She supposes she has no reason to. The time will come though, she fears, when they’ll need her.

 

Constance is sympathetic to her problem.

 

“Well of course you feel that way; it’s addictive, that’s why it sells…every…time.”

 

“It shouldn’t be.” Says Billie, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. She’s trying to break this dependency; not on nicotine, but on the Murder House. She visits less, she advertises more, spends more time at home or at the houses of customers and she tries to keep it out of her mind as much as possible, although it’s a bit like trying to chase away your own shadow.

 

“How long’s it been?”

 

“Two weeks and three days.” Billie Dean says, fingers tightening around her cigarette. “I think I’m ok, I haven’t broken anything yet and I’m not sleep walking or anything.”

 

She waits for what she knows will come. She doesn’t have to wait long.

 

“How is Tate? Has he said anything to you?”

 

Billie exhales heavily, smoke billowing before her face. “No, Constance. He associates me with you so doesn’t come out often.”

 

“That man is a therapist, you know? The Harmon man? He could help Tate! You have to go round and convince him to go to session with him. I’ll arrange it all over the phone, Mr Harmon need never know!”

 

Billie Dean sighs and looks at this desperate, almost pitiful woman, still chasing the hope that she may one day be forgiven for her unforgivable cruelty. She cannot deny that an opportunity to get back in the house is tempting.

 

“Fine. Call me when they go out. Do you have a spare key?”

 

“Yes. I don’t think they’ve changed the locks. The doctor works from home, so it might be a while before they’re all out, but I’ll keep an eye out and call straight away.”

 

Billie Dean rolls her eyes at Constance’s persistence and her predictability and puts out her cigarette.

 

\----|--|----

 

The call comes the week after and once more Billie Dean Howard enters the Murder House uninvited.

 

“Tate?”

 

“Yes?”

 

That’s a surprise. She’d merely had to call his name and there he was. Her hand flutters to her chest in shock.

 

“Hello. Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I’ve come on behalf…of…of your mother.”

 

The boy shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t leave. _Why is he being so cooperative?_

 

“She wants you to go to therapy sessions with Dr Harmon. She thinks you have some issues that need addressing, and talking to someone might help. She’ll sort out all the details, you just need to appear on the doorstep at the right time. Obviously, don’t tell him about your past, also try not to mention that you’re dead and haunting his house, ok? Just talk in terms of weird dreams and be honest about your emotions. I know you’re likely to be reluctant, but I think it’s a great idea, and it would perhaps give you some answers. And it would get both me and your mom off your back.”

 

Tate watches her talk with his resting expression of miserable neutrality.

 

“So? What do you say?”

 

He shrugs and turns away to run upstairs, calling behind him. “Sure. It can’t hurt. Let me know when the first appointment is.”

 

Billie Dean frowns. _That was too easy_. Where was all the stubborn immaturity that she’s come to associate with the undead teenager? Why would he just _agree_ to something that will not only grill him about his painful past, but that his _mother_ wanted him to do?

 

Something has _definitely_ changed about him, Billie decides.

 

She turns to leave to tell Constance the good news, then a voice stops her.

 

“Miss Howard.”

 

She turns, and Nora Montgomery is standing under the arched doorway of the doctor’s study. The look in her eyes is slightly faraway, but she doesn’t look disorientated, and she hasn’t been crying.

 

“Mrs Montgomery. I’m sorry, I’m in your house again…” She doesn’t know exactly when she started going along with Nora’s charade about the ownership of the house.

 

Nora spends a long moment roaming Billie Dean with her eyes, frowning with something like confusion. Eventually, her gaze travels back up to Billie’s face.

 

“That’s…quite alright…you are certainly not the most unwelcome visitor.”

 

She may well not remember the kiss, Billie Dean reminds herself, but it’s difficult to tell; the woman is private at the best of times and fragmented at the worst.

 

There’s something not quite right in the air, she suddenly realises. She can feel it fizzing on the inside of her eyelids and under her fingernails. She can feel things beginning to gather and shift and swarm under the surface. The house is radiating a new kind of energy, a dark energy, a deadly energy; an energy that suggests not death that has been, but death that is to come.

 

Nora is recovering, she is becoming more real. This is good for…well, good for Billie Dean, but bad for everyone else. The spirits are growing stronger.

 

_It’s too full in here. After years of tragedy, this house is finally fit to burst_.

 

She has to get out. She has to leave. She has become dependent like an addict on this house’s energy, but it’s turned toxic and it’ll poison her if she doesn’t separate herself. She has to lance the growth, bleed the wound, cauterize the wound.

 

She has been staring at Nora Montgomery for minutes while this all runs through her head. The socialite looks a little uncomfortable.

 

“Is…is there something wrong, Miss Howard?”

 

Billie pulls herself together.

 

“No.” She forces a smile. “Not at all, Mrs Montgomery. I’m glad to see you looking so well, but as I said, I’m once more here uninvited…”

 

_I have to leave. I have to get out._

 

She finds her voice again: “I…I just thought I’d stop by, but I think I’ll go now. I don’t want to disturb you or your husband.”

 

A rather desperate smile flits across Nora’s beautiful, ancient face. “No, really, there is no need. You are quite welcome. Please, stay, we’ll have supper.”

 

Billie Dean swallows, trying and failing to break eye contact with endless blue eyes that hold centuries in sorrowful depths.

 

“No, I’ll only be a burden. It’s fine, Mrs Montgomery, I should really get going.” She forces her eyes away and hurries towards the door. Nora looks a little disappointed, but not too panicked. She expects Billie to come back.

 

Billie reaches the door. She forces herself to open it. The house mourns, calls to her, sees her intentions and reaches out, losing another potential victim.

 

“And, Nora…stay safe, ok? Stay happy while I’m gone. Look after the children and watch the life around you. Promise me.” She says.

 

Nora’s eyes narrow, but the polite smile is still there. That scrap of lace is back in her grasp.

 

“Of course.” She lets out a nervous flutter of laughter. “What else would I do?”

 

Billie Dean smiles and finds herself a little heartbroken all of a sudden. She mentally shakes the unpleasant sensation off.

 

“Goodbye, Mrs Montgomery.”

 

“Goodbye, Miss Howard.”

 

\----|--|----

 

Billie Dean comes back one more time, to see the carnage of the night when the rest of the Harmons go the way of their daughter.

 

The horror is so real, so palpable, the house swallowing around its latest captives, that something breaks in Billie Dean. She stands in the once more gutted-out study and sighs into the heavy air. Constance is next door. The spirits swirl and call out to her, but she ignores them.

 

This is the last straw. This house is bad down to its foundations. She wishes the Harmons good luck, hoping perhaps they can find some happiness in their family unit as some of the other inhabitants have managed to.

 

She can’t visit the Murder House any longer. It’s killing her. She can feel the poison in her blood.

 

She has work to do. She has a TV series to make. She has other haunted spots to scope out. There’s a hotel in the city that is practically _begging_ to be investigated. She doesn’t need the Murder House. She _doesn’t_.

 

She leaves the house for the last time, without saying goodbye to any of its ghosts, closing the door behind her and not looking back as she passes through the gate and goes straight to her car.

 

A pale, willowy figure, clutching a piece of white lace in one hand and holding a gently sobbing child with the other, with a calm and understanding expression and no exit wound in the back of her head, watches from the window as she drives away.


End file.
